


and oh, my dear, I would cross the stars for you

by elizaham8957



Series: Star Wolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Anyways, F/M, Mutual Pining, Scott stands by and rolls his eyes the whole time, Star Wars AU, and thus starts the onslaught of stydia content, post A New Hope but pre Empire Strikes Back, they're in love with each other but they won't admit it to the other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “Princess,” Morell immediately said, beckoning them over. “Your contact has just reached out again.”“Really?” Lydia asked. “That’s soon.”“What contact?” Stiles asked Scott, leaning over Scott’s shoulder.“The one I’m not telling you about, for security risks,” Lydia said, not even turning to look at the two boys.Scott shrugged. “That one.”“They have a large haul of fuel barrels on Ord Mantell, waiting for pickup,” Morell said. “It should be a quiet mission. You only need a few people.”“Me! I volunteer,” Stiles said immediately. Lydia rolled her eyes at him exasperatedly.“I was hoping Commander Skywalker would accompany you,” Morell said, her tone even, ignoring Stiles’s outburst. “And you need a cargo pilot.”“Come on, Lydia,” Scott begged, looking at her. Stiles wasn’t sure why this was even up for debate; they always flew missions together. The three of them were sort of the Rebellion stealth-mission dream team.Lydia rolled her eyes again, turning back to Morell. “Well, seeing as these two are incapable of being physically separated, then sure, Stiles can come.”***Or, the mission that changed everything for Stiles and Lydia.





	and oh, my dear, I would cross the stars for you

**Author's Note:**

> WELL, this is the next part of the Star Wolves series, and I have to say, the amount of Stydia content only goes up from here. Like, exponentially. Is there even a plot in the next one? Jury's still out. 
> 
> A million thanks to my awesome sister magicath17, who dealt with me when I called her realizing this had to be written for ESB to make sense, and who helped me figure out the details. A huge thanks to Allison im2old4thisotp as well, who is the most wonderful beta I could ever ask for. Thanks for putting up with my run on sentences and constant abuse of the em-dash, girl. You're truly the best. 
> 
> Uh, a slight warning for blood at the end, although again, I don't think it's anything worse than what's been on the show. I'm stilesssolo on both tumblr and twitter if you ever want to chat, because Teen Wolf may be over now (sobs) but I will never stop talking about it. I'd love to know what you think of this as well! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing Stiles’s brain registered was _cold._

The moment the Millennium Falcon’s loading ramp was down, an arctic blast hit him straight in the face, and he almost swore, because _kest,_ was that freezing. He could see his breath in front of him, practically feel the ice crystals forming in his nose, and if he stood there any longer, he was reasonably convinced he would turn into a human popsicle.

“Kriffing— _gods,”_ he managed, his arms already going numb in his customary white button down, his vest on top offering him no protection from the frigid temperatures. “Who in the nine Corellian hells picked _this_ planet for the base?”

“That would be me,” Lydia said primly, walking down the loading ramp like it was a catwalk. She turned to face him at the bottom, fixing him with a pointed look. “And if you had _listened_ to me and actually put on your snowsuit, you wouldn’t be freezing right now.”

“Yeah, I think I would rather freeze, thanks,” Stiles mumbled, his lips surely turning blue. From behind him, Scott appeared, sporting one of the aforementioned snow suits. Stiles acknowledged that the Rebellion’s official color was apparently traffic-cone orange, but the atrocity that Scott was wearing right now— bright orange, like the X-wing fighter pilot suits, but puffier and more insulated— he was going to have to pass. Scott looked fine, because his best friend had the nerve to look attractive in literally anything, but there was no way in hell Stiles was going to be caught dead in one of those monstrosities. He was about seventy-seven percent positive he had an old parka in the Falcon somewhere. He’d dig that up, or else risk hypothermia.

Lydia, however— he wasn’t sure how she managed to still be a fashion icon in the middle of a war, but he guessed if anyone could do it, it would be her. She was wearing a custom fit, well-tailored, pure white snowsuit, complete with a matching vest and fur-lined snow boots, her hair braided in a big loop around her head, a few stray curls drifting down and framing her face. Looking at her now, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, Stiles thought he’d never seen anyone more gorgeous.

His heart rate must have spiked, looking at her, because Scott shot him an amused smirk, arching one eyebrow at him, and Stiles narrowed his eyes at his best friend. Sometimes he really _hated_ Scott’s supernatural hearing. If all his blood hadn’t already frozen solid, he was positive he would be visibly blushing.

He couldn’t help it, okay? It was _Lydia,_ for kriff’s sake.

Since he’d decided to come back during the Battle of Yavin, two and a half years ago, he and Lydia had become good friends— _really_ good friends. They strategized well together— she had all the military background, and would know tactically how best to approach an attack like a soldier— but he offered the smuggler's perspective: how to sneak past ships, how to evade Imperials, how to do the thing they'd never see coming. Since then, they'd spend nights poring over maps, battle plans, technical readouts— searching for safe routes, planning attacks, finding weaknesses. They made a flawless team. Scott would join them, too, and offer his insight on things— though his forte was definitely executing plans. Scott still wasn't exactly sure how to channel the Force and control his shift from person to Jedi Wolf, but his heightened senses had made him the best fighter in the rebellion.

But there was no denying the obvious truth— Stiles was hopelessly in love with her, despite the fact that he was pretty positive he didn’t stand a chance. (Scott liked to believe otherwise, but his best friend had a habit of being too optimistic.)

Those nights, when they'd finally come up with a brilliant strategy— a surefire way to get supplies and troops through enemy territory undetected, or an attack the Empire would never see coming— and she would look at him, her green eyes shining, that little smile on her face, and Stiles's heart would just stop beating altogether. She never looked as beautiful as she did when she was thinking, strategizing, planning things out and showing off just how brilliant she really was. Stiles loved that about her. How unbelievably smart she was. He lived for the times someone from high command would talk to her like she was a pampered little princess and nothing else. Lydia’s biting, ostentatious answers always shut them up and plastered a wide-eyed expression of shock onto their faces.

For the first time in his life, Stiles was turned on by how _smart_ someone sounded. That should have been all the proof he needed to know there he was too far gone. He would talk to Scott about it, but Scott just laughed at his friend's hopeless crush, and that would just make Stiles _more_ irritated.

It wasn't like he knew it was never going to happen— he'd known that since the moment he realized he was hopelessly in love with her. He knew how things worked. He was a smuggler slash semi-rebel with a bounty on his head and nothing but a beat-up starship, and she was a princess with power and poise and a stare deadly enough to make a room full of grown men fall silent impressively quickly. Especially considering she was only  a twenty- two year old girl who stood at five-foot-three.  

He wasn’t going to ruin what they had, or put their friendship at risk in any way. The first year or so of their— he couldn’t even call it a friendship, because he was pretty positive Lydia had just tolerated him being around for Scott’s sake— _acquaintanceship_ , he guessed, Stiles had been hopelessly in love with her and painfully obvious about it, and that certainly hadn’t helped anything. Scott said it was something akin to a lovesick kath hound. Stiles liked to block it from his mind.

There was that one time, eight or so months after the Battle of Yavin— he had finally mustered up the courage, and kriff it, he was just going to _tell_ her how he felt, he couldn't stand it any longer. He'd been pining over her since he _met_ her, and the way she looked at him sometimes, he just _had_ to know if she felt the same.

She'd been in one of the storage rooms, taking inventory of rations and all the other supplies he'd just picked up on his last run, and he had walked right up to her, steeling himself. She had glanced up briefly from the holopad she was entering data into, before glancing back down at it.

“Lydia,” he'd started. “This is driving me insane, so I'm just gonna say it, okay?” Her eyes had stopped moving back and forth, fixed in one place on the holopad, so he _knew_ she was listening. “I just— ever since we met, I've felt this— I don't know, _connection_ — unspoken, of course— and I just— I mean, I feel like sometimes, you look at me, and you feel it too, and— I'm going insane, and I think I might be—”

She had looked up at him then, and her big green eyes rendered him speechless.

“I'm sorry,” she had said, tugging her earpiece out of her ear, where she was probably listening in on some High Command meeting. He hadn't even noticed it, hidden behind her intricate braids. “I didn’t catch any of that. What did you just say? Was it about the supplies? Because we're _supposed_ to have forty crates of caf, and I only see thirty-eight here.”

He’d wanted to curl up underneath a rock for approximately a week.

Regardless, they were actually friends now, and if that was what Lydia wanted, fine, that was what she would get. Stiles wasn’t going to push her into anything. He’d tried to forget about her, even had a brief fling with a different girl on base, trying to force the thoughts of strawberry blonde braids and green eyes out of his mind for good. That had done approximately _nothing_ to help, but still— Lydia had been through enough. He wasn’t going to make her life any more difficult just because she didn’t reciprocate his feelings. So he stuck to pining and complaining to Scott, while at the same time actually becoming friends with Lydia. Being friends with her was _great._ It was nice to have someone who actually challenged him in deadpan, sarcastic comebacks, and together, the two of them could solve any problem high command handed them. And who knew— maybe one day she’d change her mind. Scott seemed to think so, and while Stiles shouldn’t have allowed himself to hope, sometimes, with the way she would look at him, eyes lit up, little smile pulling at her lips, he couldn’t help it.

(There had been that one night that would stay burned in his memory forever, after a particularly large victory against the Empire, when he'd broken out a couple bottles of Corellian whiskey. They'd gotten a little too drunk— he'd almost thought she was going to kiss him, before one of the fighter pilots interrupted, and Lydia pretended she couldn't remember any of it the next day, even though he knew she could drink more than that and still explain the technicalities of hyperspace travel completely accurately.)

_It’s freezing here,_ Chewie grumbled, appearing behind Stiles in the doorway, breaking him out of his reverie. Stiles tore his eyes away from Lydia, turning to his co-pilot, unapologetic.

“At least you have a fur coat,” Stiles retorted. Chewie whuffed in annoyance, turning and retreating back into the ship.

“Yeah, same here,” Stiles said. “I’m gonna go huddle in warmth for a while. I’ll be on the ship if you need me.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Lydia said, fixing Stiles with that no-nonsense glare. “You two are helping me take inventory of the last cargo shipment as they unload it. Come on, let’s go.”

Stiles and Scott groaned, following her down the ramp and through the base, which was somehow even colder than the hangar they’d docked the Falcon in. The walls were made of ice, the ground hard- packed snow, and Stiles was pretty sure his flesh was turning blue in these subzero temperatures. Lydia hadn’t even let him get his coat.

“Well, the Empire’s never gonna find us here,” Stiles mumbled. “Based solely on the fact that if they sent any probes out here, they’d freeze solid before they could pick anything up.”

“That was the idea,” Lydia quipped. “This planet is Hoth— one of the coldest in the galaxy. Lots of technology, even things tested for extreme external conditions, can’t work out here.”

“Well, I think that really begs the question of how _our_ technology is going to work out here,” Stiles interjected.

“Central command is heated,” Lydia said. “Commlinks should be fine inside, but we’re using older models of comms outside, in the cold. The speeders are being modified to withstand colder temperatures, but we’re mainly using tauntauns for transportation outside.”

“Tauntauns?” Scott questioned, at the same time Stiles said, “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Seriously, do either of you _ever_ read up on the bases we’re going to?”

“No,” they both answered in unison.

“They’re native animals,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “They’re reptilian, with really thick fur, so they can withstand the cold. Plus they’re really fast, and good at moving through the snow, and fairly simple to domesticate. We’re going to ride them to get around, when we don’t need the cruisers.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, shrugging. Next to them, Scott shivered violently, rubbing his hands up and down his crossed arms, his teeth chattering.

“I’d rather fight the Empire off than stay here,” he volunteered, his voice shaky.

“Seriously?” Lydia said, looking between the two boys. “You two are a bunch of _wimps.”_

“I’m from a _desert planet,_ Lydia,” Scott complained. “On Tatooine it was never below eighty degrees, even in the winter seasons.”

“I don’t have that excuse, but I’m still freezing,” Stiles told her. Lydia shook her head at them, her braids shining from the light glinting off the ice.

“Huddle for warmth,” she told them, flashing her ID against the control panel, the stockroom door sliding open. Scott and Stiles looked at each other, seriously considering it.

Much to Lydia’s chagrin, they took note of inventory on her holopad, practically in each other’s laps, where their shared body heat kept them marginally warmer. Lydia, who seemed unaffected by the cold, moved along the crates people were wheeling in, calling out numbers while Scott and Stiles recorded them.

Sometimes the thing that amazed Stiles the most about the past three years was the brother he’d gained.

Stiles had very few friends in his life. There were the kids he’d grown up with on the streets of Corellia, and Chewie, obviously. The wookiee was the closest thing that he had to family, and Chewie jokingly referred to him as “cub.” It was mostly Chewie’s wife Malla’s fault, as age-wise, Stiles was around the same age as their son (like it was Stiles’s fault wookiees aged so slowly). But having someone like Scott— Stiles had never had a friend like that before. Someone there for him, unquestioningly, unconditionally, always on his side, always looking out for him. Always joking with him, teasing him, always there to talk about anything and everything— Scott’s powers, Stiles’s feelings for Lydia, the war, the Empire, the bounty on Stiles’s head, how scared he actually was of getting tracked down by Jackson. He could pretend he wasn’t afraid, brush it off like it was nothing. After all, Lydia had an imperial bounty twice the size on her head, and Scott had one bigger than the two of theirs combined, and they never batted an eye when facing the Empire. But getting tracked down by Jackson and pulled back into a life of crime and smuggling? Stiles didn’t want to go back there. He was a different person now, and Scott had shown him how to be that person. Stiles had never had real family before, but he imagined this was what having a brother felt like.

By the time they finished up in inventory, Lydia was being called down to the new command center, as was Scott. Stiles, not quite ready to give up his personal space heater quite yet, followed the two of them down.

When the doors to the command center whooshed open, Scott and Stiles almost cried at the gust of warm air that washed over them, scrambling into the room behind Lydia. She just rolled her eyes at them, crossing the room to where General Morell, their commanding officer, was already at a computer, holopad in her hand. Stiles almost tripped over a space heater moving through the cramped space.

“Princess,” Morell immediately said, beckoning them over. “Your contact has just reached out again.”

“Really?” Lydia asked. “That’s soon.”

“What contact?” Stiles asked Scott, leaning over Scott’s shoulder.

“The one I’m not telling you about, for security risks,” Lydia said, not even turning to look at the two boys.

Scott shrugged. “That one.”

“They have a large haul of fuel barrels on Ord Mantell, waiting for pickup,” Morell said. “It should be a quiet mission. You only need a few people.”

“Me! I volunteer,” Stiles said immediately. Lydia rolled her eyes at him exasperatedly.

“I was hoping Commander Skywalker would accompany you,” Morell said, her tone even, ignoring Stiles’s outburst. “And you need a cargo pilot.”

“Come on, Lydia,” Scott begged, looking at her. Stiles wasn’t sure why this was even up for debate; they always flew missions together. The three of them were sort of the Rebellion stealth-mission dream team.

Lydia rolled her eyes again, turning back to Morell. “Well, seeing as these two are incapable of being physically separated, then sure, Stiles can come.”

“Awesome! When do we leave? I’m already sick of this ice hunk.” Scott nodded in accordance with Stiles’s sentiment.

“You’ll take off in the morning. We’re in desperate need of fuel, so try to make it as quick as possible,” Morell said. “Princess, I’ll send all the details to your holopad. I would suggest you get some rest, and that you ready your ship, Captain Solo,” she said, her perfect sheet of hair swishing as she turned to look at them.

The three of them made their way out of command, Lydia bidding them goodbye as she walked down a different hall towards the high command offices. She might have a technical rank equal to Scott’s, but it was clear the higher-ups in this fight regarded her as having inherited her mother’s position as a leader, and they treated her like one of their own.

“So, the Falcon has heating, right?” Scott asked, still huddling close to his friend as they navigated their way back to the hangar.

“Yep,” Stiles responded. “It’s about the only thing that reliably works. And yes, you can sleep in the spare bunk in the hold,” he said, cutting off his friend. Scott’s smile grew wide. “But I’m warning you now, Chewie snores. Loudly.”

“As long as I’m warm, I’m good,” Scott insisted, following Stiles up the ramp of his ship.

Stiles sighed, looking at his best friend. “Why do I get this ominous feeling that this planet is going to be responsible for me literally turning into an ice block?”

“Teach me how to use the heat before you freeze solid,” Scott said, his expression dead serious. Stiles raised the ramp to keep the warmth in, laughing at his friend. They might freeze to death, but hey— at least they were together.

***

Lydia was pounding on the loading ramp well before dawn, a bag packed and her hair neatly braided back, R2-D2 behind her. Stiles, on the other hand, was still half-asleep, hair sticking up to one side, clad in a t-shirt and pajama pants, and the cold air that hit him when he let Lydia in just made him want to curl up in his bunk and never leave again.

“It’s five in the morning, your worship,” Stiles mumbled as she breezed past, shedding her warm overcoat to reveal her outfit underneath. Even in his half-asleep daze, his breath caught at the sight of her in her mission clothes: form-fitting and white, long sleeved, matched with a pair of snowy boots— typical of what she generally wore on missions. Stiles sometimes wondered— when he was drunk or sleep-deprived, generally— whether she dressed in white constantly because she was actually an angel, or if she was just trying to drive him crazy.

“If you had read the mission planout I had forwarded you, you would have known to be awake,” she replied primly. “Hi, Scott,” she added, directed at the mound of blankets and messy hair curled up in the spare bunk in the hold. He mumbled something in response, before burrowing further, his mop of hair almost disappearing under the heap of bedding on top of him.

“It’s too early for you to be gloating,” Stiles insisted, rubbing at his eyes.

She feigned a look of innocence. “I might be wrong, but wasn’t it _you_ who insisted on flying this mission?”

Stiles shook his head. “Okay, you know you’re never wrong.”

She smirked at him slightly. “Exactly. Let’s get going, flyboy.” Her tone turned serious. “We _desperately_ need that fuel. And Ord Mantell is a far trip.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that, thank you,” Stiles said, padding down the hall to the cockpit, Lydia following right behind him. She slipped into the copilot's seat next to him as he began the Falcon’s startup routine, praying the engines would wake Chewie so that Stiles wouldn’t have to. Not even a second later, her shoes were kicked off, her socked feet resting on the dash, her chin propped in her hand.

She did that a lot. The first time she’d ever done it, it had shaken Stiles, and made him nervous as hell to see her comfortable enough with him that she was able to look so at ease in his space. He loved when she could set aside the princess persona and be so— _vulnerable,_ or comfortable here; he wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. It still took his breath away every time she did it, that she trusted him enough to let her guard down around him.  

“You’ve been to Ord Mantell before?” she asked, her voice curious. Stiles ran a hand through his hair, still working on fully waking up.

“I don’t know why you always act so surprised when you find out all the places I’ve been,” he replied. “Before you dragged me into this doomed Rebellion, my job was literally to fly around the galaxy.”

“I know,” Lydia said, pursing her lips at him. “Ord Mantell doesn’t seem like a prime location for your… clients.”

“It’s amazing, how nice you can make ‘drug dealers’ sound,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “And you’ve clearly never seen the seedier parts of Worlport.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “It just seems dangerous, selling spice in an Imperial-occupied city.”

“Trust me,” he laughed. “The Stormtroopers wanted nothing to do with the back-alley casinos my clients hung out in.”

“Well, that’s where we’re headed now,” she said, pulling her legs into her chest, resting her head on her knees.

“I know,” Stiles told her. “Herglic’s Folly, right? Who do you know who’s hanging out _there?”_

“A friend,” Lydia said, her voice getting quiet. “A spy with the Rebellion. I knew her on Alderaan.”

Stiles fell silent. Lydia never brought up Alderaan. It had been more than two and a half years since it had been destroyed. He couldn’t even fathom how much she must miss it.

The moment of silence ended, though, when Lydia scrunched her face up in confusion, throwing Stiles a suspicious look. “How did you know we were headed for Herglic’s Folly?” she demanded, head tilted to the side in that adorable expression she made when she was thinking.

Stiles shrugged, his mouth a little dry. “I read the mission summary.”

She looked at him incredulously for a second, her jaw slightly dropped. “Then why were you so surprised when I knocked on the ramp at 5 am?”

Stiles gave her a hesitant grin, hoping not to actually make her mad. That would _not_ lead to an enjoyable trip to Ord Mantell. “I was hoping that part was a typo.”

She rolled her eyes at him, muttering “unbelievable” under her breath, but the little grin tugging at her lips was good-humored, and her eyes were shining at him. As much as he tried to downplay it, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, just from the way she looked at him. Thank the stars Scott wasn’t around to tease him.

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully. Lydia stayed with him almost the whole time. Even when Chewie came grumbling into the cockpit to help fly, she moved to the seat behind his, legs curled up into her chest. Once they were in hyperspace, Stiles went to go change, coming back to find her and Scott settled in the two chairs behind his and Chewie’s. They stayed there for the rest of the flight, talking and joking, enjoying being together without the ever-present, imminent threat of war that was always tangible at the base.

Stiles sighed when the loading ramp went down in Morro Spaceport, the warm Ord Mantellian breeze washing over him. He glanced at Scott next to him, who had a similar expression on his face.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Stiles said, making a face at Scott. “Before you know it we’ll be freezing our asses off again at the new base.”

“But the Imperials will never find us,” Lydia interjected. “And that’s what’s important.”

“Personally, I’d prioritize not losing any appendages to frostbite, but—”

“Okay, seriously?” Lydia cut him off, her expression half-exasperated and half-amused. “Can we _please_ focus on the mission at hand?”

“If you think we’re ever gonna let you forget that you chose a _frozen tundra_ with _no discernable lifeforms_ for our base—”

“You’re sorely mistaken,” Scott finished.

“Fine,” Lydia sighed, giving in. By now she had realized that sometimes it was easier to just quit then try to argue with Stiles— _especially_ when he got Scott on his side, which was often.

“What’s the plan, Lydia?” Scott asked, his voice ever so slightly apologetic. Stiles would tease her and quarrel with her endlessly— out of affection, she knew; it was never ill-willed— but Scott was too nice for that. She gave him a grateful look, seemingly glad that _someone_ was on task.

“We’re meeting my contact at a casino in Herglic’s Folly in an hour,” Lydia told them. “Then she’ll tell us when to meet her to move the shipment on board. Probably in the middle of the night tonight.”

“Herglic’s Folly?” Scott asked, his expression confused. Stiles shrugged at his best friend.

“Seedy casino region of the city. Like Mos Eisley, but with less sand.”

“Good,” Scott concluded. “I’m so sick of sand.”

“You’re still not gonna tell us who this contact is?” Stiles asked. He didn’t want to push, but he was overly curious to know what spy Lydia considered her friend. As far as Stiles had gathered from the other troops on base, Lydia didn’t _have_ friends, other than Scott and Stiles. She had developed a reputation for being an ice queen long before she had moved them all onto a frozen planet.

“No, I’m not,” Lydia said. “It’s not important.” 

“It seems pretty important to me,” Stiles started, but with one withering glare from Lydia, his argument died in his throat.

“Let’s get moving,” Lydia said, one hand resting on the handle of her blaster, tucked into her belt and concealed under her light jacket. “The city’s under Imperial occupation. I want to make sure we have enough time to get to the bar without being recognized.”

“Okay, Chewie and Artoo, you stay with the ship,” Stiles instructed. “I don’t feel good leaving her here alone, with this city crawling with Stormtroopers. She’s pretty recognizable.”

Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Maybe to you. To anyone else, she just looks like a hunk of scraps that’s one trip through lightspeed away from falling apart.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped, his expression incredulous. _“Seriously?”_ he demanded. “Will you please stop insulting my ship?”

“No,” Lydia replied primly. “Now come on, let’s go.”

Worlport did look a lot like Mos Eisley did— bigger, and less seedy, though. Scott pointed out buildings that looked just like those of Tatooine, with sandstone walls and domed roofs, but all Stiles could see in the facades was Corellia. That made sense, because Ord Mantell had originally been a Corellian colony, but still, he hadn’t been back to his home planet in ages, let alone his home _city._ The last time Stiles had set foot in Coronet City was when he had been sixteen, packing the meager possessions he had and leaving to enroll in the Imperial Academy. Now, more than ten years later, seeing the familiar architecture of buildings he’d grown up begging in front of, restaurants he’d pickpocketed people at— it was almost surreal, like a ghost was hovering just over his shoulder.

They kept their heads down as they moved through the nicer parts of the city; Ord Mantell was certainly an occupied planet, and it seemed every corner they turned revealed more and more Stormtroopers. Luckily, Lydia went unrecognized, a shawl pulled over her intricate braids to mask the unusual color. It was evident when the shift between touristy and sketchy began— the building facades were poorer-lit, not as colorful, and the people looked more ragged and worn-down, no bright, flamboyant garments of visitors. Beyond the seedy storefronts, the wide, expansive plateaus of Ord Mantell stretched, dotted with grasses and rocky outcroppings. Other than Worlport, most of Ord Mantell looked like that— rocky wasteland.

Lydia led them into a dingy-looking casino at the end of the street. Stiles _guessed_ it could be called a casino, because there were plenty of sabacc tables, and the air was heavy with smoke and the tang of spice, but the bar and dancefloor seemed to take up most of the space. Sentients of all species filled the crowded space, sitting at cards tables, hovering around the bar— the building was hot from all the people crammed inside, and Stiles immediately felt claustrophobic from all the bodies pressed up against him. He rested a hand on the small of Lydia’s back, allowing her to lead them through the crowd, but still shielding her from all the other people. No one here seemed to be very interested in who they were, but if someone recognized her…

“There,” Lydia breathed, nodding her head slightly, her scarf still elegantly draped around her head, and Scott and Stiles followed her to a dark corner of the club, into a secluded booth behind the sabacc tables. In the booth sat a woman, dark hair tucked under a shawl similar to Lydia’s, in plain clothes of muted colors. Her dark skin looked perfect, except for three enormous scars that started at her cheekbone and ran down her neck, disappearing into her collar— like someone had tried to slash out her throat with sharp claws. The woman grinned at Lydia, but it didn’t fully reach her brown eyes— Stiles could tell just from looking at her that this woman had lived through a lifetime of sorrow and war.

“Braeden,” Lydia sighed, keeping her voice low, but her smile was wide. The older woman smiled back wider at her, and some of the hardness of her eyes melted away.

“Lydia,” Braeden replied as Stiles and Scott slipped into the booth after Lydia. Stiles knew he shouldn't be staring, but this woman was too intriguing— those scars kept catching his attention. How in the nine Corellian hells had she _survived_ that? What had _happened?_ Lydia said she knew this woman from Alderaan, and Alderaanians were notoriously pacifists. It had been enough of a shock for Stiles to learn their former senator, Lydia’s mom, had been one of the people spearheading the Rebellion.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon,” Lydia said, her tone still hushed.

“I didn’t find this shipment,” Braeden admitted. “Someone donated it. Just left fifty barrels in the Queen’s private hangar with a note, saying to make sure it fell into the right hands. With the starbird below it.” The starbird was an old symbol of the Rebellion, used by individual rebel cells years ago, before they had all come together to form a greater resistance.

“Well, someone’s looking out for us,” Lydia surmised, arching an eyebrow. “It’s all clean?”

“We scanned it all. It seems to be perfectly normal, not tainted or contaminated or anything.”

“Fifty barrels,” Scott mused. “Someone really _is_ looking out for us. That’s incredible.”

Braeden arched an eyebrow in an expression so like Lydia’s that it made Stiles blink in surprise. “This is Commander Scott Skywalker,” Lydia said in explanation. “And Captain Stiles Solo. They’re my friends,” she added, and the older woman gave Lydia a warm smile. “They can be trusted.”

“You’re docked in Morro Spaceport?” Braeden asked. “We can transfer it all over this morning— how about two a.m? The Imperials have a lull in their patrols at that time, to change rotations.”

“Perfect,” Lydia said, nodding. “We’re in hangar 3, docking bay 14.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Braeden said, standing and slipping out of the booth. “Good luck, Lydia.” The woman offered them all a small smile, before turning and leaving.

“I’ll comm Chewie, tell him the plan,” Scott volunteered. “We should stay here for a little while before we leave.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “The darker it gets, the fewer Stormtroopers are going to want to be in this part of town.”

“Well that makes me feel better,” Lydia huffed, shooting Stiles a look as Scott stood and walked away from them to comm the Falcon. Stiles grinned back at her.

“Don’t worry. I have enough blasters for the both of us.”

“If you think I came here without even bringing a weapon, you clearly don’t know me at all.”

“I know,” Stiles teased. “How many guns do you have hidden on you right now? Four?”

“Seven,” Lydia said primly, glancing away. Stiles arched his eyebrows. Lydia’s expression was hardened and battle-worn, but he could see the fear underneath it. There was nothing she cared more about than this Rebellion, but there was always the underlying terror of what would happen to them if they were ever caught. Lydia had already been captured once and endured the trials that accompanied that. Stiles knew no specifics of her time on the Death Star— mainly because she never talked about it— but that glint of fear in her eyes, albeit the layers of determination and confidence that heavily masked it— it always lingered, hiding in the back.

They stayed in the casino for a couple hours, the sunlight outside waning ever so slightly. The time seemed to pass more slowly, knowing the stakes of the transfer tonight. The anticipation made Stiles jittery, and the seconds seemed to drag along. Stiles entertained himself by playing sabacc, much to Lydia’s chagrin, though after she watched him sweep in one round, her protests died out. She had a working knowledge of how the card game worked, but Stiles was _good_ at this game. She and Scott hovered at his side, watching as he beat everyone he faced with ease.

“You’re _really_ good at this,” Scott stated after a while, staring a little wide-eyed at the large pile of credits amassed by Stiles’s elbow. “You could buy a house on Tatooine for all that.” Stiles glanced at the pile of money, taking it in. Sometimes he forgot— Scott may have grown up with a home, with a family that loved him, but he certainly hadn’t come from money, like Lydia had. Tatooine was a poor planet, ruled by Hutts, and Scott had told him once that his mother had been a former slave— that pile of money was probably more than Scott had ever seen at one time. Stiles was all too familiar with _that_ feeling. He remembered once on Corellia, when he’d been about six, and a friendly senator had emptied her purse into his outstretched hands— Stiles had never seen so many credits in his life.

“What are you planning on doing with that money?” Lydia asked, arching a brow.

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. Buy us all a steak dinner? There are some pretty fancy restaurants in the nice part of the city.”

“Yeah, and the second we stepped in there, we would be recognized by the Imperial officers also probably dining there,” Lydia hissed.

“Fine, be a buzzkill,” Stiles teased, turning back to his game, slapping down an idiot’s array of cards— an automatic winning hand.

_“Seriously?”_ The Rodian across from him exclaimed, his jaw dropping as he surveyed Stiles’s hand of cards. “That’s it; I’m done.” Stiles grinned widely, that almost demonic smirk lighting up his face, raking the man’s credits towards his pile.

“Excuse me for not wanting to be _captured,”_ Lydia retorted.

“Scotty, want to get us some drinks?” Stiles asked, passing over some of the credits as the Rodian stood up from the sabacc table, muttering about no-good Corellian scum. Stiles smirked amicably at him as he left.

“Sure,” Scott said, taking the credits and heading to the bar, leaning against the grimy surface and trying to flag down a bartender.

Stiles and Lydia were silent a moment, though Lydia kept checking the time on her commlink, almost nervously. “It’s nearly dark,” Stiles said quietly, and her head snapped up, green eyes wide. “We can head back to the Falcon soon; meet your friend.”

Lydia nodded silently, her eyes flitting around the bar— always searching, always scanning for danger. Even in this backwater place, disguised and keeping a low profile, there was always danger of being discovered.

“How do you know her, anyways?” Stiles asked, trying his luck one last time. “I thought you said she was from Alderaan, but those scars don’t exactly suggest she leads a pacifist life. Although, I guess you are an exception to that rule too,” he rambled.

Lydia shook her head. “No, she’s not Alderaanian. She’s Noobian,” Lydia said, and Stiles immediately went silent, hoping she’d continue. “ She was one of my tutors and advisors when I was little.” Lydia sighed, her voice low. “She was an advisor to the Queen of Naboo, during the Clone Wars. That’s when she got the scars, though she’s never told me how. She knew my mother,” Lydia added, her voice getting quieter.

“Natalie?” Stiles clarified. Generally when she said “mother” she meant the senator that had raised her. Lydia nodded in affirmation.

“She works with the Rebellion now,” Lydia said. Their sabacc table was abandoned other than them, and everyone else in this bar was too drunk to be listening. “She finds suppliers of things we need. Half your supply runs are thanks to her.”

Scott returned back to their table with three drinks in hand, carefully balanced. “Not long now,” he commented, glancing out the window, where fading beams of sunlight washed over the stone road, making the sandy plains glow red as the sun sank below the horizon. Stiles shook his head in accordance, taking a sip of his drink, trying to calm the pre-mission jitters in his system.

“Nope. Not long.”

***

At one-forty-five in the morning, the three of them, plus Chewie, slipped off of the Falcon, lowering the cargo ramp and preparing for the transfer. Stiles knew he should have been exhausted, especially since Lydia had woken them up at five the previous morning, but the flutter of anticipation kept him alert— probably bolstered by the cup of caf he’d finished a couple minutes ago.

Braeden appeared moments later, hauling a pallet of fuel crates behind her. “There are seven more of these,” she said, passing the pallet off to Scott, who guided it up the cargo ramp to the hold.

“Chewie, Scott, you two go with her, help get them all in here,” Stiles suggested. “Lydia and I can get them on board.”

Everything went smoothly for the most part. Lydia and Stiles had loaded nearly all of the fuel crates on board; Chewie was readying the ship now for takeoff, Scott was storing the last pallet in the hold, and Lydia and Stiles were waiting for Braeden to return with the eighth and final pallet of fuel crates. In fifteen minutes, the cargo would be loaded, the ship would be under way, and then they’d be back in hyperspace, soaring towards their freezing, secure base.

Stiles’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by a blaster bolt whizzing by his head.

“Stormtroopers!” he yelped, ungracefully tackling Lydia to the ground, shielding her from the oncoming fire. But no more gunshots rang out, and Stiles hesitantly looked around the fuel crate they had dove behind. The hanger appeared empty, though— no soldiers, no Stormtroopers, no anyone.

“What the hell?” Stiles muttered, surveying the room again. “Where did that come from?”

“There are no stormtroopers?” Lydia asked, peeking her head out as well. “We’re outnumbered; they wouldn’t shoot once and _hide.”_

“I know,” Stiles murmured. “Something’s not right.”

“Braeden better hurry with the last—” Lydia started. But Stiles, ever observant, caught the slightest hint of movement over in the far corner of the hangar, by the back door.

“Shh!” Stiles cut her off, pointing slightly. “Look, right there. By the arch.”

Lydia’s hand subconsciously slipped into his; Stiles almost jumped, already so on edge, at the sudden feeling of her fingers slipped between his. She did this a lot— grabbed his hand when they were in the middle of something, generally dangerous— Stiles didn’t think she even realized she did it.

“What do we do?” Lydia asked, squeezing his hand slightly. Stiles squinted at the doorway, trying to make out anything about the intruder. Giving up, he reached down to his holster, grabbing his fully-loaded blaster.

“Stay down,” he whispered to Lydia. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself,” she whispered back, brow furrowing, but Stiles ignored her, standing slowly, his blaster aimed right at the archway.

“Who’s there?” he called. “I know you’re there; I can see you.”

No one appeared, but a feminine giggle echoed from the other side of the hangar. Stiles froze, his finger tensing on the trigger— who tried to shoot someone and then _laughed_ about getting caught?  

As soon as the woman emerged from around the corner, Stiles sighed, because of course— that was exactly who would laugh at something like this.

“Stiles Solo,” Kate Argent said, voice like poison, smile acidic, as the bounty hunter took a step closer to them. Stiles held his gun steady, staring her down. “You’re a hard man to find,” Kate said, her expression mockingly serious. “Jackson’s been looking for you for a while. He wants his money back.”

“I don’t have his money,” Stiles spat, narrowing his eyes at her. She flicked her blonde curls over her shoulder, the helmet of her Mandalorian armor held loosely in the hand not holding an enormous blaster.

“I figured as much,” Kate replied, walking closer still.

“Then why are you here?” Stiles responded, growing more agitated.

“Well, no one’s seen you in _years,”_ Kate replied, and Stiles _hated_ how fake her voice sounded, how she was clearly just playing with them, and how much she seemed to enjoy doing it. “With the bounty on your head, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to catch you. And I knew your precious Rebellion wouldn’t be able to resist a gift of fuel crates. And look!” she sneered. “My plan worked perfectly. Lucky for me,” she continued, her tone acidic, “Jackson doesn’t care if you’re alive or dead.”

“No way in kriffing _hell_ are you taking me back there,” Stiles spat, cocking his blaster.

“Oh, we’ll see,” Kate responded conversationally, taking one final step, before firing her blaster again.

Stiles dove out of the way, narrowly missing the blaster bolt, dragging Lydia with him and shielding her from the oncoming spray of gunfire. If he didn’t die here, General Morell would definitely kill him if he brought back the crown princess of Alderaan injured.

_“Scott!”_ Stiles screamed, hoping that with his supernatural hearing, his best friend would be able to hear them. “We could use a little help here!”

“Stiles?” Scott called back, panicky, appearing on the loading ramp, lightsaber in hand.

“Bounty hunter!” Lydia yelped. “Careful!”

Scott’s lightsaber was immediately out, deflecting blaster bolts. Of course, that had to be the instant Braeden came back into the hangar, pushing a pallet of very flammable engine fuel.

“Chewie!” Stiles yelled, as the wookiee appeared behind Scott. “Get the ship ready to take off!”

_But you’re going to get yourself shot!_ The wookiee argued, his crossbow in hand, as Stiles fired back at Kate. She darted out of the way, artfully dodging his bolt and shooting right back. Scott missed the blaster bolt heading for them, and it caught the corner of the crate they were hiding behind for cover, narrowly missing Lydia’s head.

“Careful, your worship!” Stiles hissed. “Do _not_ get yourself shot!”

“Funny, I was really hoping that I would get killed by a bounty hunter in the middle of the night on a strange planet,” Lydia spat back, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She fired her own blaster, aiming for Kate. “We need to get that fuel on board, _now.”_

“Chewie, get the ship ready to take off!” Stiles called again. “The second we’re on, get her in the air! Scott, cover Braeden! Get that fuel on board!”

“On it!” Scott responded, darting down the ramp and towards Braeden. “Keep her busy!” he called, jerking his head towards Kate.

“Come on, Lydia,” Stiles said, grabbing her hand and tugging her from the crate to the side of the Falcon, where they had much better coverage. Peeking from around the ramp, they were able to keep firing at Kate while still shielding themselves. Scott quickly guided Braeden to the ramp, shielding her with his lightsaber as she shoved the crate into the hold.

“We’re good!” Scott called. “Come on, you guys!”

“Lydia, you ready?” Stiles asked. “We’re gonna have to make a run for it.” The small length from the side of the ship to the cargo ramp was completely open. “You stay behind me, okay?”

“I am perfectly capable of shooting at her,” she snapped, her brow furrowed.

“I know, that’s not why,” Stiles said, shaking his head. They were running out of time. “But the General will kill me if I bring you back injured. Please, just stay behind me. You’re way more important to the Rebellion than me.”

“You are _not_ dying,” Lydia insisted. “Do _not_ go taking any bullets for me. That’s an _order.”_

“We don’t have time for this. Just stay behind me, please?” he begged, his eyes imploring.

“Fine,” she grumbled, taking his hand. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, raising his gun. “Let’s go.”

Still holding hands, they sprinted around the side of the ship, making a mad dash for the ramp, darting blaster bolts as they went. Scott stood at the top, one hand poised over the controls to bring the ramp up.

“You can’t get away this easily, Stiles,” Kate hollered, just as they set foot on the ramp. “I’ll find you again, don’t worry.”

“Good luck with that,” Stiles spat over his shoulder, his gun still raised, shielding Lydia as they ran up the ramp to the top. Briefly, he registered the sound of her blaster discharging again, the hot flash of a blaster bolt whizzing towards them, before Lydia was shoving him out of the way, and he fell to the ramp, his hands hitting the hard durasteel to brace himself as Lydia gasped in pain, a strangled scream echoing from her lips. As soon as he regained his bearings, his head whipped around, searching for Lydia.

When he laid eyes on her— everything seemed to stop. The world slowed down, his breathing halted, his heart stopped beating momentarily. Because Lydia was laying on the ramp next to him, blood spreading over her snow-white outfit, a smoking bullet hole in the shoulder of her shirt.

_“Lydia!”_ Stiles yelped, voice anguished, and it felt like he was moving underwater or something— sound was garbled, he couldn’t make anything out, except the weak breath coming from her bloodstained lips, the feeble sound of her voice when she murmured _“Stiles...”_

He had her in his arms immediately, trying to stop the bleeding, his hands shaking— “Get the ramp up!” he screamed at Scott, feeling the platform below them start to move. “Lydia, stay with me,” he commanded, his voice shaking. “Don’t you kriffing _dare_ die on me.”

“Get her in the air!” Stiles heard Scott call. “Lydia’s hurt! We need to get off-world, away from that bounty hunter!”

_I can’t get her in the air by myself!_ Chewie roared back.

“Scott, go help Chewie!” Stiles snapped. His hands were still on Lydia’s wound, trying to stall the bleeding. Gods, there was _so_ much blood. Stiles felt like throwing up at the sight of all of it, spilling onto the floor of the Falcon, seeping through her white shirt, staining his fingers, draining the color from her cheeks—

“Stiles,” she whispered again, and her voice was so weak. His mind was racing, heart pounding, and he was almost certain he was hyperventilating.

“Shhh, Lydia, shh,” he soothed, trying to keep his voice even. There were tears in his eyes, he was almost certain. In all of his years living on the streets, smuggling spice, fighting the Empire— Stiles had never felt more terrified in his life than he felt in this moment. “You’re gonna be okay.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he couldn’t consider an alternative right now.

Braeden was by his shoulder, her hands steady, gently but urgently pushing his blood soaked fingers away from her wound. “It was a blaster bolt?” she asked, examining the wound.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his mind fuzzy with terror. “Yeah, but I don’t know what the hell kind of blaster that was— why is she bleeding this much? Why isn’t the wound cauterized?”

“Some blasters fire plasma bolts with lower heats,” Braeden said, her hands moving to her belt, unbuckling it and yanking it off. “Meant for just this. Assassinations, mainly. If the bolt misses its mark, the victim still bleeds out. Much lower chance of survival.”

“She’s going to be okay,” Stiles insisted, almost ferocious. “She _has_ to be okay.”

“I know,” Braeden snapped. “So it’s a good thing I know what to do. Now are you going to be helpful, or just hover?”

In a normal situation, Stiles would have responded with a bitingly sarcastic comeback, but his heart was racing too fast to think straight. Luckily, Scott was back from the cockpit, kneeling down next to his friend, resting a hand on his back.

“We’re in the air, ready to make a jump whenever you are,” Scott said. “But it’s a long way back to Hoth, and I don’t know what sort of hospital we’d be able to take her to, without being recognized.”

“We need to stabilize her before we go anywhere,” Braeden told them, ripping off the ruined sleeve of Lydia’s top, leaving her shoulder bare and the wound exposed. It looked even worse not covered in blood-soaked fabric. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled vaguely, eyes still locked on the blood pouring from Lydia’s torso.

“I’ll get it,” Scott said immediately, standing.

“Stiles, hold her still,” Braeden instructed, standing and moving towards her injured shoulder. “I need to put this belt on her as a tourniquet. Hopefully that slows the bleeding.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, his bloody hands wrapping around Lydia’s torso, firmly but gently holding her still. Lydia whimpered as Braeden slipped the belt around her shoulder, tightening it and tightening it. “Shh, Lydia, it’s okay,” Stiles smoothed, taking one hand and squeezing it gently.

Scott returned with the first aid kit, opening it for Braeden, who immediately began rooting around for something. Lydia’s eyes looked glazed, her face even paler, and her eyelids began to droop, her breath growing even shallower.

“No, Lydia, stay with me,” Stiles ordered. “Come on Lydia— you have to stay awake. Lydia,” he begged, one hand on her face, shaking her gently, trying to get her to stay conscious. “Kriff, Lydia, come on— you can’t die,” he told her, imploring, and he could feel his pulse increasing, tears leaking from his eyes. “Lydia, _please,_ stay with me.”

“I— I’m trying,” she whispered, her voice _so_ weak.

“The wound is clean,” Braeden told them. “I’m going to try to stitch it shut, stop the bleeding. Lydia, this is going to hurt,” she said, the hand not holding a needle resting briefly on Lydia’s forehead. “Hold her hand,” Braeden told Stiles, and Stiles nodded, gripping Lydia’s hand in his still. Her skin looked so pale next to his scarlet-stained fingers.

“Oww,” Lydia whined, voice feeble, as Braeden began stitching the wound. Blood oozed from the bullet hole as she worked.

“I know, I know,” Stiles soothed. Scott was on her other side, smoothing hair from her face, comforting her as well. “It’s okay. It’s almost over.”

Braeden finished her stitching, demanding bacta and a bandage, cleaning the blood from Lydia’s skin before smearing it with bacta gel, dressing the wound in a clean bandage. “The bleeding’s stopped. That should hold until we get to Hoth,” she told them. “She seems stable enough, and any medical facility we actually _would_ be able to sneak her into would be of too poor quality to treat a wound like this appropriately. Our best bet is to make it back to base. Tell Chewbacca to make the jump to hyperspace, and to hurry. If he knows any shortcuts, now would be the time to use them.”

“I’ll go,” Scott volunteered, standing. “Stay with her.”

“Do you have a bunk somewhere?” Braeden asked. Stiles nodded, his gaze still fixed on Lydia.

“Yeah. Yeah, my bunk’s biggest.”

The two of them carefully carried Lydia to Stiles’s room, deliberately not jostling her shoulder. Ever so gently they lowered Lydia onto his bed, resting her head softly on his old, well-worn pillow.

“I’ll stay with her,” Stiles told Braeden. “I’ll call if anything changes.”

“Make sure she doesn’t move that shoulder,” the older woman instructed. “If the stitches come undone, she’ll start bleeding again.”

Braeden left them both in Stiles’s bunk, and Stiles immediately clambered into the bed next to her, sitting back against the headboard. Her forehead brushed against his thigh, her head practically in his lap. In other circumstances, he probably would have been freaking out at that, but right now it seemed like a minor detail. His hand immediately found hers, and he sighed in relief when she squeezed his fingers back.

“Hi,” she murmured, her green eyes still hazy.

“Hi,” Stiles replied, voice soft, stroking her cheek gently. Her skin was still pale, but there was a little more color in it than before.

“Why would you do that?” Stiles asked her, almost begging. “Why in kriffing hell would you sacrifice yourself for _me?_ I told you to stay _safe.”_

“I… I could tell,” Lydia whispered, her voice weak. “I don’t know how. But… I could tell… you would have died.”

Stiles’s mind was still spinning, still in shock from the image of Lydia bleeding out on the floor of his ship, so he didn’t really register that. “Don’t— you’re _so_ much more important than me, Lydia,” he whispered, smoothing hair from her tangled braids out of her face. “Don’t sacrifice yourself for me. Okay? Please don’t do that again.”

“You could just thank me,” she joked, her voice still too quiet. “But okay.”

“Thank you,” Stiles told her, both for saving his life and agreeing to his plea. “Rest, okay?”

“Okay,” she sighed, moving her head to his lap. “You’ll stay?”

“Of course,” Stiles told her. “I’m staying right here. I’m not leaving you.”

“Good,” she sighed, her voice getting softer, although now it was from sleep, not from blood loss. “I had to save you, Stiles,” she told him. “I couldn’t keep going without you.”

Stiles froze momentarily at that, his thumb pausing in the circular path it was rubbing on the back of her hand. He knew Lydia cared about him, considered him a friend— but Stiles had never dared hope that Lydia’s feelings about him were as strong as his for her. Because what she wanted came first, and Stiles wasn’t going to force her into anything.

But hearing those words now— it was like the world got a little clearer, a little brighter, because he finally understood how Lydia felt about him. And it was exactly how he felt about her.

The eight-hour trip back to Hoth was the longest flight of Stiles’s life— Lydia slept on and off, but Stiles stayed awake the whole time, making sure her shoulder didn’t start bleeding again. Braeden came in a couple times to check on her as well, always finding the two of them in the same position— Lydia’s head in his lap, their hands interlocked, Stiles’s other palm running over her arm, careful of the bandaged wound. Whenever Lydia did wake up, she was woozy and discombobulated, and while she was still in some pain, it was nothing like before, she assured him. Her eyes were still a little glazed, skin still too pale, and he knew she was going to need a blood transfusion when they got back to base— maybe surgery too; he was definitely not an expert on medical matters. Even though he was still beyond worried her condition would suddenly and drastically change, the initial terror of her dying had faded greatly, and he thanked whatever god was out there that Braeden had been here and known what to do.

Lydia slept a lot, but whenever she was awake, he talked quietly to her, to distract her from the pain. Stiles told her stories from when he’d grown up on Corellia, and Lydia described the meadows she’d played in back on Alderaan, when she was little. He told her about the adventures he and Chewie had back in their smuggling days, how Scott and Derek had Jedi practice on the Falcon while on their way to rescue her— dumb stories, small things. Lydia was awake but only really half-there, and he had a pretty good feeling that she wasn’t going to remember most of this anyways.

***

The second they touched back down on Hoth, medics raced onto the Falcon, warned ahead of time by Scott over comms. They immediately helped Lydia onto a stretcher, taking her from the ship and to the med center. Stiles and Scott followed, Chewie and Braeden not far behind them, but they weren’t allowed to follow her into the actual med center. Instead, they waited behind closed glass doors, and that anxiety returned, gnawing away at Stiles— what if something happened? What if she’d lost too much blood? If Lydia died and it was his fault— he wasn’t sure he could live with himself if that happened.

It seemed like hours later when General Morell finally emerged from the med center, her face stoic and calm. Stiles wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“She’s stable, and she’s going to be okay,” Morell told them, and both Stiles and Scott let out enormous sighs of relief.

“She lost a lot of blood, but luckily, that tourniquet and the stitching kept it from becoming critical,” Morell informed them. “It’s a good thing you were there, Braeden.”

“I’m just glad she’s okay,” Braeden said. “Part of my job was to protect her, when she was little.”

“She still needs to recover from the surgery,” Morell told them. “But she’ll make a full recovery. Tomorrow, she should be awake and alert. You can go see her then. In the meantime, if you could unload our new stock of fuel, it would be greatly appreciated.”

Morell turned to Braeden. “If you’d come with me, Braeden, I’d like to discuss some things in the control center.”

“Of course,” Braeden responded. The two women left, heading down the icy corridor and away from the med center.

_We left the ship still running,_ Chewie informed Scott and Stiles. _I’m going to go shut it down._

“Okay,” Stiles said, still in a haze. “Thanks, buddy.”

Scott stayed by his side, both of them looking through the glass windows into the med center. A medical droid was moving a bed out to the main unit from the surgery section, and Stiles’s heart pounded again, seeing Lydia in that bed, looking so small and frail. The doctors might have said she was okay, but she was still ungodly pale, her skin sallow, almost translucent. Her shoulder was tightly re-bandaged, and a collection of IV drips fed into her arms.

Scott rested a comforting hand on Stiles’s shoulder, and it conveyed everything left unsaid between them. Scott didn’t need to have supernatural powers to know exactly what Stiles was thinking.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Scott reminded him. “And don’t start thinking it’s your fault. It’s _not_ your fault.”

“How is it not my fault, Scotty?” Stiles asked, but his voice wasn’t hostile— he was too tired to argue, too anxious to be angry. But there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he was the reason Lydia was in that hospital bed right now. “I’m the reason that Kate was there in the first place. And I’m the one that should have taken that bolt.” He turned away from Lydia, towards his best friend. “She said that she _knew_ I was gonna die; that that was why she pushed me out of the way.”

“She’s probably right,” Scott said. “It caught her shoulder, but it would have gone straight through your heart. That’s what it looked like, anyways.”

Stiles shook his head slowly, mind still reeling. “I— kriffing hell, I can’t believe I put her in danger like that. I should have never flown that mission.”

“Stop, Stiles,” Scott pleaded. “Seriously. It’s not your fault. She’s not gonna blame you.”

Stiles exhaled, eyes wandering back towards the strawberry blonde, still motionless in the pristine hospital bed. “I have never been more scared than the moment I saw her shot on the ground,” Stiles confessed.

“I know,” Scott said. “That was terrifying.” Scott sighed. “I’m just really glad she’s going to be okay.”

“Me too,” Stiles murmured. A moment passed, before he spoke again.

“I’m in love with her,” Stiles said, not able to tear his eyes away from Lydia, so close but still so far, behind the thick pane of glass.

“Is that supposed to surprise me?” Scott asked, and Stiles turned back to his friend, meeting his eyes.

“No, I mean—” Stiles sighed, unsure how to articulate what he felt. “Not like in the beginning, when I would say I was in love with her, but I was more in love with... I don’t know, the _idea_ of her, or something. Like I had her up on some pedestal. The past year has been—” he looked at Scott, shaking his head. “I really love her. _Her.”_

And he did. He’d known for a while, but this was the first time he had admitted it out loud when it was _real,_ not just something he’d say about a girl he was infatuated with. This was something he really felt for Lydia— a girl with hopes, dreams, fears, and flaws. She wasn’t some unattainable figure off in the distance, she was a real person, and he loved every single part of her.

“Again,” Scott said. “Not really surprising me.”

“What do you—” Stiles groaned at his best friend’s grin. “Oh, screw you and your goddamned _ability to smell emotions,_ okay?” But they were laughing— it felt good to laugh after what had just happened.

“For what it’s worth,” Scott said to Stiles, voice quieter. He hesitated before speaking again. “I think she’s in love with you too.”

If Scott had said that a week ago, Stiles probably would have fainted. But now, after what had happened earlier, what she had said, just the two of them in her bunk— _in love_ might be a strong phrase, but Stiles had his sneaking suspicions. He’d sort of figured out that she cared more about him than just a normal friendship.

“I know,” Stiles said instead, and now it was Scott who looked like he might faint. “She told me, earlier— she said ‘I had to save you, because I couldn’t keep going without you.’ Just the way that she said it— I thought she probably felt more than just friendship affection.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” Scott asked.

“I don’t think she knows,” Stiles said to his friend. Scott flashed him a confused look. “I don’t think she knows she’s in love with me,” Stiles clarified. “She keeps her emotions so shut up— she probably hasn’t realized.”

“Are you gonna tell her? Or, talk to her about it, or something?”

As much as Stiles wanted to say yes— because he _really_ wanted to answer yes to Scott’s question. He really wanted to just _tell_ her, make her realize what she felt for him was real, that she could have it, that if she asked he would hand her his heart right now. Stiles wanted nothing more than to be hers, to have every fiber of his _being_ be something Lydia called her own. The thought of her finally reciprocating the love he’d felt for the past year, the thought of getting to be with her— he wanted so badly to say yes. But Stiles knew that he couldn’t, under no circumstances. This was her realization that she had to come to. He wasn’t going to interfere or push her or do anything. She had to figure it out this time.

“No,” Stiles answered, quiet. “No, I can’t. She has to realize.” He turned to his friend. “I can’t make her register her feelings before she’s ready. That’s not fair to her. She’s gotta figure it out herself.”

Scott nodded his head, resting a hand on Stiles’s shoulder again. “She will,” Scott assured him. “You two are good together. She’ll figure it out.”

“I know,” Stiles said. And he did. It would take time, but that was okay. She’d figure it out at some point. “She’ll realize eventually. I don’t mind waiting.”

“Really?” Scott asked, raising an eyebrow. Stiles almost laughed, but his eyes drifted back to Lydia— even pale and frail and delicate-looking, she was still the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

“Yeah, really,” Stiles answered. “I’d cross a galaxy for that girl. I can give her as much time as she needs.”

And Stiles meant it. Every day, every hour, every second of his life— she could ask, and it would be hers. There was nothing he’d deny her, ever. If she wanted the stars, he would find a way to bring them to her.

Compared to that, waiting almost sounded easy.

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I know what you're wondering. Is this medically accurate? The answer to that question would be a firm and resounding no. I tried to research bullet wounds and if you can actually bleed out from getting shot in the shoulder and got PROFOUNDLY grossed out. There's a reason I'm a mechanical engineer and not a doctor. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this. The series gets AGGRESSIVELY Stydia from here on out, so. Get pumped.


End file.
